


A Million Years, I’ll Wait

by Ros3mary



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Pre-Relationship, smut kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 02:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16714982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ros3mary/pseuds/Ros3mary
Summary: Weekly flings and unrequited love turn into an ugly beast that neither boys know how to handle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s 1 A.M. and I tried :)

Hot hands moved over hot skin, sturdy fingers tracing over rust freckles and pale tones amid the panting, shifting sounds of two boys locked together.

Stan’s hands settled on Kyle’s biceps, tan curling against pale. His lips moved in rhythm against Kyle’s, and warmth coiled uncomfortably low in his gut. Every point of connection between the two (so, almost his entire body) screamed with heat, screamed with Kyle.

Stan moaned something unintelligent, gasping against Kyle’s mouth, effectively kissing, and being kissed, completely senseless.

Kyle was shirtless, and pantless, and so was Stan. They were in Kyle’s room at Kyle’s parent’s weekly date night, and Kyle and Stan’s weekly hook up.

Stan pulled back, breathing hard, staring at Kyle as the redhead began to shake off his daze and finally open those eyes (those cursed, blessed emerald eyes) and stare back at Stan with confusion.

Stan was crouching over Kyle, the pale boy’s legs locked around the noirette’s waist, Kyle’s hands in Stan’s hair and Stan’s elbows framing Kyle’s face. The usual position before more... intimate ones.

Kyle began to look suspicious, as Stan stared at him with adoration. He couldn’t really help it, though.

Kyle’s rust curls spilled on the white pillow like a halo, framing his stupidly beautiful face.

Kyle’s faint, red freckles that Stan loved so much, that had popped up in sixth grade and that Kyle hated, and that Stan had never given up trying to count.

Kyle’s perfect nose, and eyebrows, and perfect, perfect lips.

Kyle’s emerald eyes, which could light up with passion, anger, joy, which could enchant Stan into doing anything Kyle asked, even selling his own heart away.

“What?” Kyle finally asked, his mouth quirking down into a half-frown. “Are we gonna get on with it?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, grinning dumbly. I love you, I love you, I love you! His head sang. “I just, yknow-“

“Stan.” Kyle said sharply, withdrawing his fingers from Stan’s hair. “No.”

Stan felt his chest crack open, and his stupid smile fell so fast it almost hurt. “Right. Yeah. Right.”

He pushed himself up, away, shaking Kyle’s legs from his waist and sliding off the bed. He picked up discarded clothing items and began to dress. The bed creaked softly as Kyle sat up.

“Stan, what the hell?”

Stan pulled his dumb hat over his ears, laced up his shoes. He turned to Kyle with his hand on the doorknob, feeling overwhelmingly guilty and overwhelmingly crushed. “Yeah, sorry. I just. I can’t.”

He opened the door with a soft click, shut it with an even softer one. Then he didn’t look back as he power walked into Kyle’s backyard, still not quite ready to leave.

The sliding door whizzed softly closed behind him, and Stan’s tennies crunched in the white snow.

His eyes looked around the yard before settling on the rusty old swings that had been around almost as long than Stan himself. Stan strode towards the two seats, suspended by gray chains scattered with faint rusty freckles from misuse. The house’s inhabitants were too old for simple pleasures like swinging. Stan took his usual seat, facing the house, threading his fingers closed around the chains, rubbing his thumb over the rusty feel.

He looked around the yard, surprised - dully, but still so - by the wave of nostalgia that filled his chest.

Stan could see him and Kyle, three years old, swinging, picnicking, making snowmen and snow fights, running around together, and completely oblivious to anything but each other.

He could see him and Kyle, seven years old, sitting on the wooden porch and talking like grown-ups, tiny legs swinging over the snow.

He could see him and Kyle, ten years old, playing The Stick Of Truth, but just the two of them - enjoying their roles and their company, Stan too eager to please his “king” and Kyle beaming at the indulgence.

Stan could see them at fourteen years old, that dumb fight that lasted a whole two months before they caved and forgave each other.

Stan saw him and Kyle at sixteen years old, their lips crashing together messily and wildly. He could see Kyle talking, could remember - “No commitment. No love. No relationship. Just fun and sex, okay?” He could see himself nodding. Then he could see himself sitting on the porch when Kyle left, face in hands and crying, feeling so stupid and so, so in love.

That had only been a year ago. Weekly flings only roped Stan’s heart in more, and Kyle stuck firm to his agreement. No commitment. No relationship. No love.

But God damn it, Stan was in love, so, so in love, and he couldn’t indulge Kyle any more, not while driving himself to splinters in the process.

“Stan, what the actual shit? It’s freezing out here. What the hell are you doing?”

Stan jerked unpleasantly from his thoughts, looking up at Kyle’s figure crunching towards him through the snow. His eyes looked angry.

“Hey.” Stan murmured, nodding towards the other swing.

Reluctantly, Kyle sat, and the two were in silence for a few moments before Kyle spoke.

“Dude. I know this is like the third time, but what the hell? What’s up with you? What did you mean, you ‘just can’t’?”

Stan smiled hollowly, pushing the toes into the white snow as he thought.

This is it. This is it. I can’t hide it any more.

“Kyle.”

Stan stood swiftly, making Kyle jump, and moved to stand in front of the redhead. He knew his outline would be glowing with the house’s light, and that his eyes would have that desperate, hoping look of adoration that he knew so well from the mirror.

“I’m in love with you.”

Kyle’s mouth dropped open, but Stan charged on.

“I’m so in love with you, dude, it hurts. I’ve been in love with you since second grade, since - “ he stepped to the side and pointed at the back porch “ - since I proposed to you with a cherry ring pop right there when we were five years old. I would do anything for you, you know that, but I can’t do this anymore. This!” He gestured vaguely, throwing his hands up before letting them drop to his sides in defeat. “The sex, the kissing, the touching - I can’t stand that it doesn’t mean anything to you, when it means so much to me. Every time we do it, and it means nothing after, and I can’t tell you how much I love you - it breaks my fucking heart. So, so, bad. I can’t go on like this.” His voice cracked, eyes burned, he didn’t care. Kyle’s eyes were so wide. Stan knew that his own heart had fled long ago, most likely bleeding out into the cold snow at his feet. “Please, fuck, Kyle. Is there any chance - in a million years, I’ll wait - that you’ll ever, ever love me? Not even the way I love you, just a little bit. That would be enough.” Stan knew that his voice had taken a desperate, pleading tone, and he knew he should be embarrassed, but he didn’t care. He really didn’t.

The silence stretched, and stretched, and the crevice in Stan’s chest deepened, twisting with pain. His vision blurred with tears.

“No,” Kyle breathed. Stan sucked in a sharp breath, repulsed a sob. “No, no, no. I’m sorry.”

Stan was frozen. He felt a single tear drip down his cheek. He couldn’t - no, hell, no - Kyle - please - holy shit -

“Okay.” He whispered, not missing how crackly and broken he sounded. “Okay.”

Stan turned and walked away, desperate to be away, but just as desperate to drop at Kyle’s feet and beg.

He hesitated when the sliding door was open, halfway into the house’s warmth.

“Goodbye, Kyle.”

It felt final.


	2. Chapter 2

Stan sobbed openly into his pillow, curled in a fetal position around it. His breath was ragged and cold against the back of his throat.

He heard dimly his door click open, and the bed dipped.

“Honey, Stan, what’s wrong?” His mom whispered.

Stan trembled softly. He felt Sharon’s hand on his shoulder. “I told him. Mom - I told him how much I love him. He said no,” his voice cracked. And he curled tighter.

“Oh,” Sharon breathed. “Baby, I’m so sorry.” She stood and left the room, knowing Stan’s need for space, leaving him to whittle away in his dark thoughts.

 

Stan’s eyes had dark circles. His hair was messy. He was paler, just slightly. It was Monday, and high school sounded like Hell.

Sharon had offered for him to stay home, but he hadn’t wanted to hide. He couldn’t forever. One day wouldn’t help.

He was also moderately - okay, really, really hungover. He had drunk until he passed out last night, and the night before, and the night before, and woken all times with vomit, sweat and tears.

Stan walked tiredly into the school, shoving his bag into his locker (after he found it) and taking out the books he needed for first and second, before break.

“Marsh! You look like shit.” A voice yelled, a hand slapped his back, and Stan winced.

“Hungover.” He muttered, shutting his locker as quietly as possible and turning to his friend. “So shut up.”

Clyde laughed loudly, and Stan cringed again, starting to walk quickly to home room. “Please, Clyde, seriously.”

“Dude,” Stan flinched, “do you need a hairbrush? Or a drink?”

“I’m fine,” Stan said, only slightly slurring, “go to class, hobo.”

Clyde grunted but complied, turning and striding towards his zero period.

Stan opened the door and fell into his seat with a grunt, dropping his head into his arms to block out the light, and probably fall asleep.

He felt eyes boring into him, and whimpered softly, wishing he had the sense to not sit in his normal seat, which was right next to Kyle’s. Of course it was. They had near identical schedules, they had made sure of that at the beginning of the year.

A bag hit the desk’s surface, and the smell of Kyle’s cologne hit Stan like a shockwave.

Stan lifted his head only when the teacher started talking, ignoring several minutes of tense silence at the table.

“You look like shit.” Kyle said.

Kyle didn’t even look at him.

Stan felt a strong hollow thumping in his chest, pushed to the edge only by the idiot - the beautiful idiot -‘s voice.

“Fuck you.” He said intelligently, slurring a bit.

Kyle chuckled, but Stan saw his hands tighten on his pencil, and subtle tears blur in the corner of the redhead’s eyes.

Stan felt like sobbing. How dare Kyle be just sad, when Stan was broken?

The whole thirty minutes of class composed of Kyle angrily writing notes or something dumb, and Stan playing on his phone, texting several people at once to annoy Kyle, as he knew it did.

_Is it incredibly cringy of me to say that I get jealous when you text other people in front of me?_

No, no, no. No memories. Not that one. Stan forced it down. No.

When the bell rang, he stood up so fast his hungover rose in his throat, and he pushed away from the class, from Kyle, as if they were contagious.

Though, admittedly, Stan was the one puking in the bathroom two minutes later.

 

“Stan, I hate to tell you this, but you look even shittier than usual.”

Stan groaned, cradling his temples in his palms. “So I’ve been told.” He muttered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw Token look away, and then he said, “Does it have something to do with that?”

Stan dropped his hands, looking up. Two tables ahead.

Kyle.

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Why do you think that?” He said, only half-sarcastically.

“Because he’s been staring at you since we sat down?”

Stan jerked his eyes open, staring with more intensity. Kyle was looking right at him, looking concerned, tired, and very upset.

Stan bit down a sob and settled on flipping Kyle off.

Clyde slid onto the bench ahead, and Kyle was blocked from Stan’s sight. Stan didn’t know whether to punch the brunette or be eternally grateful.

He struggled with his feelings for the rest of the lunch period, not listening to the conversation and not contributing.

 

The rest of the next two weeks followed the same pattern.

Come to school hungover, drink himself to sleep on school nights, attempt (and fail) to drink himself out of existence every weekend. Day after day.

It only changed when Kyle finally noticed the fresh scars up Stan’s inner arms and wrist that the noirette didn’t even try to hide.

 

Stan grunted as he was shoved against a wall. His back hit and he looked with muffled surprise at his attacker. Kyle. Great.

The locker room was already empty. No, no, he had to get out before he did something he’d regret.

“What the - Stan? What is this shit?!”

Stan had never heard Kyle this angry. His emerald eyes blazed. It made Stan so nostalgic.

Kyle’s slender fingers gripped Stan’s arm and flipped it savagely. “What did you do to yourself?”

Stan looked down at the neat, scabbing scars. How had he done them so neat? When had he done them, anyways? Stan squinted at his arm, trying to make sense of his muddled thoughts and Kyle’s anger.

“Why-“ Kyle’s voice broke, and his hand flew to cover his mouth, releasing Stan’s arm.

Stan absentmindedly traced the bumpy scars. They felt funny under his clumsy fingers. Stan giggled.

“Stan- are you drunk? Seriously?”

“I am not,” he searched for the word briefly, “drunk.”

“Yes you are, asshole! You leave me, trash yourself, come to school drunk, scarred-“ His voice broke into a sob, and he wiped at his teary cheeks.

“Come on.” Kyle grabbed Stan’s hand and started dragging him out.

“Where are we going?”

Kyle muttered to himself and didn’t answer. Stan was too gone to even try to be mad, smiling goofily at Kyle’s fingers interlaced with his.

Ten minutes later, after a long walk and a short throw up, Stan was laying on Kyle’s bed, half asleep. He had a stupidly adoring grin on his face as he watched Kyle.

The redhead sat next to him. He had given up on trying to lecture Stan after he had thrown up. He was looking at Stan’s arm, trailing his fingers over the scars. One tear fell down his cheek. He leaned over and planted a soft kiss on each and every scar, gentling brushing his lips against the bumpy scabs.

When he was done Kyle settled on just holding Stan’s hand. He looked up at Stan’s face and sighed.

“Kyle.”

Kyle jumped, eyes wide for a minute. “You’re awake?”

“Kyle, I love you.”

Kyle’s face fell, and a few tears splashed onto Stan’s knuckles.

“Kyle - I really love you -“ Stan slurred, trying to sit up and get closer to Kyle.

The redhead sniffled and pushed Stan back down gently, leaning over to put a soft kiss against the noirette’s forehead. “I know.” He said. “I know.”

Stan fell asleep like that, in Kyle’s bed, not caring about anything in the world other than Kyle’s fingers entwined with his. 


	3. Chapter 3

Stan woke up with his face buried in soft hair that smelled like heaven. He pulled away, groaning and trying to open his eyes. “What...”

His body was warm, entangled with another. Stan finally opened his eyes all the way, seeing a certain redhead curled into his chest. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Damn it.”

The clock on Kyle’s dresser read 3:29 A.M.

Stan pushed Kyle away, scooting so far back his lower back hit the windowsill, and he hissed in pain, wincing.

“Stan...” Kyle moaned, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

Stan bit his lip. He always had a soft spot for how Kyle moaned his name. “Shit.” He cursed breathily as he sat up.

What did he remember?

He remembered going to school drunk, Kyle yelling. Then it was black. Then laying in a warm bed, watching Kyle kiss every scar up and down his wrists. “Shit!” He spluttered, looking down at his arms.

“Stan, wha-? Oh.” Kyle was sitting up, too, squinting at Stan.

“What the hell, Kyle?” Stan snapped angrily.

Kyle leaned back, looking surprised. “Dude-“

“You think I want to wake up in your bed, you asshole? Why would I want that? Why the hell did you bring me here?” Words flew from Stan’s mouth in his haze of anger.

“You were drunk, and those - the scars -“

“Oh, so I’m a charity case now? Seriously?”

“You know it’s not like that.” Kyle’s voice chipped with frustration.

“Do I?”

Kyle was silent, and Stan clumsily slid off the bed, starting for the door.

“No, Stan!” A hand clasped his wrist, hard, and Stan cried out hoarsely, yanking his hand away to rub at the agitated scars.

Kyle was breathing hard, eyes wide in distress at Stan’s wrist. “I’m sorry, Stan-“

“Kyle.”

“I’m sorry you hurt yourself because of me-“

“You know, I just realized something.” In his sober clarity, Stan could process things he couldn’t before. Things much more dangerous. “If you could never, can never love me, then all that sex? It was just sex to you, wasn’t it? I was your come bucket for a year.”

Kyle’s eyes went wider. “That’s what you - No! God, no, Stan!”

“Then why?”

Kyle fell silent, and Stan nodded slowly. He didn’t cry. Over the past two weeks he had cried himself dry.

“Okay. Yeah, no.” Stan turned for the door again, but Kyle flung himself at it, pressing his back and palms against the door’s surface.

“Wait,” he pleaded, emerald eyes blurring with tears.

“Wait? I’m not gonna be your sex toy anymore, Kyle,” Stan snapped harshly, thinking he would savor the way Kyle flinched, squeezing a tear out. It just hurt.

“Please, just stop. I need to think.” Kyle pressed his face into his palms. He murmured something so low Stan could barely catch it. “I can’t lose you.”

“Then love me.”

Stan felt bold saying it, but withered under Kyle’s emerald gaze as the redhead slowly looked up at him. He reached out and ran his fingers through Stan’s hair, rubbing his thumb behind Stan’s ear and eliciting a sigh from the noirette. Growing braver, Kyle stepped closer and tilted his head up, his fingers tracing Stan’s face, and one of his thumbs rubbing his lower lip.

“I’m scared,” Kyle whispered. He was so close Stan felt his warm breath.

“What are you scared of?” Stan breathed, just as quiet.

Kyle smiled ruefully. “Loving you.”

Stan tried to pretend like his heart didn’t just thump against his chest hard, laced with barbed wire. “Why?” He croaked.

“Because I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t!” Stan cried, finally lifting his hands to cup Kyle’s face. “Kyle, I would stay with you forever.” He paused, his voice lowering. “If only you asked me to.”

Kyle’s breathing hitched, and he surged forward to bury his head in Stan’s chest, shoulders shaking slightly. Stan stroked Kyle’s hair comfortingly, the way he liked, soothing his fingers through the hair on Kyle’s scalp.

“I can’t make you love me, Kyle.” Stan whispered. “I’ll leave if you want me to.”

Kyle clung to him tighter. “Don’t.”

Stan buried his nose in Kyle’s hair, just waiting.

“I - I love you.” Kyle choked against Stan’s chest. “I do.”

Stan froze. “Really?” He breathed.

Kyle nodded, and pulled his head away, tilting his chin up to kiss Stan softly. “I’m sorry,” he gasped as they separated, “That I took so long.”

Stan smiled, pressing chaste kisses against the corner of Kyle’s mouth, his cheek, his nose, his forehead.

“I told you I’ll wait for you.”


End file.
